Introspection
by darkintrigue
Summary: An Agent ponders his reason for being.


Introspection

All life stemmed from one simple mutation or another, a 'happy' accident of nature. That one small change in a simple cluster of cells could dictate the survival or otherwise of a species was a source of fascination. That his own existence was due to one of 'mother natures' miracles was a fact that repulsed him. This state of being, this 'life', he owed to the charges with whose safety he was entrusted. It was they who had conceived of his type, they who provided him with energy and purpose. Without them, he would cease to be. The thought sickened him. To be so utterly dependent and so totally indebted to his subordinates…it did not bear contemplation. 

They were the worst type of animal, he thought. Never happy unless they were fighting, hurting, warring, _fucking_. Driven by greed, revenge, jealously, anger, lust. There was no logic in their actions, no gain to be had from their needless, mindless self-destruction. And yet…they were so beautiful in their constant state of imperfection. Always seeking betterment and as they reached the hallowed state of fulfilment, only to have it snatched away, never once complaining, as though some in built instinct to strive for a better world pushed them onward. 

There were always those that sought to disrupt the harmony of his world, barging into the fray like a discordant note in a breath-taking symphony. He had his orders, but he also had his pride. To threaten the fine balance between peace and chaos in his realm was unforgivable, not only in the eyes of the higher consciousness, but also in his. Could they not appreciate the complexity, the sheer splendour of what had been created for them? Everyday he marvelled at the sun's ability to rise and set, revelled in the kiss of a light summer's rain or of the fleeting chill of a snowflake as it melted on one's skin. What did it matter that his sensory delights and those of the people he watched over were but a mere illusion? This painless fantasy was preferable to what they'd face on awakening from a lifetime's slumber.

Though he could never see it for himself, he had heard what the 'world of the real' was like. A scorched sky, raging, unending storms, bitter, icy winds that could almost strip the skin from a human's bones…he failed to see the attraction of a life unplugged. He wanted to keep his flock safe, banish any that tried to harm them. The resistance threatened their happiness. It was logical then that he would have such bloodlust for the cretins. It was a common misconception that he hated their kind, hated that they had in essence birthed him. He hated not them, but the disorder that allowed both their creation and his own. A 'happy accident'. A contradiction. Illogical. Irrational. Human.

He had seen the resistance wax and wane throughout the centuries, reaching its peak before the inevitable destruction, the inevitable reboot as the inevitable One performed his inevitable task. He had to admit, this time he was intrigued by Him. He had changed his programming, freed him from the constraints of the mainframe. He was more than a match, but then, they always were. It was their purpose. This time, the ritual lay incomplete when by rights He should have ended it. The thought made him fretful.

Could this One be the man to free them all, sentient life and human consciousness alike? It was a worrying notion, but one that had to be pursued as rationalism dictated. He had always tweaked his own programming; learning their culture and adopting it in order to better understand them. The subtle nuances of the species captivated him, sending him into a spiral of who's, what's, why's and how's. His teachers over the years had taught him much, the joy of music, the art of a simple conversation that didn't involve interrogation. The more imaginative, the more _bold_, had taught him to _feel._ He learned of the simple pleasure that could be derived from walking barefoot in the sand. He realised that pleasure was not a weakness, despite the human's need for comfort of this sort. Slowly, through the coaxing and gentle persuasion of his tutor's, he had found he could understand the extremes that were love and hate. He experienced the range of emotions between the two extremes and found there to be nothing more satisfying than to give in to the more potent emotions. 

He was more dangerous than they realised. He was no machine; he was not merely interweaving strings of code. He was Smith. He could spend years analysing what he had become and still be no closer to the truth, veracity no one, not even himself, knew. He had been designed to perceive warmth, to taste, smell, see, and touch…but not to _feel,_ not really. Only recently had he put the base understanding of human emotion into practice and built upon that vague concept until he had truly grasped why the humans clung to these primitive urges so desperately. Though they may inadvertently cause themselves such pain through the negative aspects of emotion, the highs far outweighed the lows. It was another part of their composition that both baffled and captivated him. Strange and beautiful creatures. Amazing and bittersweet, this realisation. How wonderful then that he had been freed, the constraints that bound him so tightly now blissfully absent. How terrifying the knowledge that he alone was now responsible for his actions, what he made of his time within the matrix. It was...worrying. It was exhilarating. He was alive and yet some other part of him had died. The confusion was like a cancer eating at his soul. Did he have a soul? He didn't know, but it was the only way to describe this constant state of flux. 

As a program, he craved logic and order. Why then, had he succumbed to such corruption, allowed himself to adapt and be free when one simple bout of reprogramming within the matrix would have solved the problem? He knew the answer was; because he wanted this. Corruption none, this was sweet liberation, the most welcome of all possible avenues that led away from the mundane existence he had survived, not lived. This was living, this now. Oh, how he savoured each simulated breath of air that was unencumbered by responsibility, an accountability that had been thrust upon him from his first moments of sentience. He had abhorred the lack of choice, the fact that he had been bound to another's rules and regulations with no leeway for centuries. Who in his position would have refused the chance at life?

Jones and Brown. That was the short answer, he supposed. They would never let their personal feelings interfere with the will of the matrix. If they even had feelings. He very much doubted that. His musings entertained him, filled in the periods where the One was conspicuous in his absence. These times were increasingly infrequent now, but still the short breaks in the rebel's activity pained him. It was like being parted from a lover, he reasoned. Distressing, but the reunion was always so sweet. He held no love for the One. On the contrary, enmity was what drove him in their encounters. But he had to seek him out, had to understand...how? How had he done this? 

Smith felt the familiar surge of joy entwined with rage as the One stood before him. He nodded once, curtly, and smirked. He would find his answers. He would find them and then he would rid the Matrix of Thomas A Anderson. This thing called life was not without it's advantages.

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A/N: I've strayed from my usual fandom to bring you this. Meh. If you have any feelings on it, let me know. :)


End file.
